


Two Sides of the Same Dirty Coin

by MissMagenta92



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Abuse, Begrudging Partnership, Drama, Drug Use, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Friendship, Multi, Romance, Set after Deathwish, Sexual Tension, Unrequited Love, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 14:09:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMagenta92/pseuds/MissMagenta92
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While making a friendly visit to the Vanilla Unicorn, Trevor meets a mysterious new girl whom he can’t get off his mind. However, as things are in Los Santos, she is not as she seems, leading Trevor, Michael and Franklin into a whole new world of trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Honey, Put Your Dancin' Shoes On

**Author's Note:**

> Hi- this is my first fanfiction for GTA V (love it so, so much!) as well as my first fanfic on Ao3 so if you like it then feel free to leave me comments, kudoses and constructive feedback; I won't bite!
> 
> I do not own the GTA franchise as Rockstar owns it (and they do a wonderful job with it) and I don't own Play Something Country by Brooks and Dunn. The only things I own are my original characters and the DIA. Bring on the DLC!

Looking back on the past few months, Trevor couldn’t help but feel content. Content in the fact that he had millions in his bank account and content with the fact that Michael was back in his life, for better or worse; the fact that he happened to own the largest strip club in Los Santos was just a sweetener to his life. Wade was still there of course, living off all the booze and girls that Trevor could throw at him. Should he have ever found about Floyd and Debra...his little infantile mind wouldn’t have been able to handle it. Trevor was all he had.

He strode into the club in his new Ponsonby’s suit- Michael’s voice going _“If you’re gonna be a club owner you should dress like one. And bathe_.” echoed contemptuously in his head, but regardless he felt good in some expensive threads- scarily so. As he walked inside, he could see the purple and green lights swinging around the main stage with some ghastly pop tune blasting throughout. He walked up to the desk, where he was met with a stare that could melt an iceberg.

“Roxy!  How are ya m’darlin’?”

“Absolutely swimming in a sea of utmost delight.” She deadpanned, rolling her eyes.

“Y’know, I really do live for these little exchanges of ours. Whaddya say to coming out the back a bit later, fuck eachother stupid on the desk?” He leered over the frames of his new sunglasses.

“Can’t imagine my girlfriend being too happy with that.”

“She’s more than welcome to join- why not ring her up now?”

All Roxy could do was roll her eyes before picking up a file. “We have a new girl- name’s Mercedes Rosenberg, but she’s going under Starry Knight.” She threw the file over toward Trevor. He opened it, greeted with a very passport-ish photo that he was sure he’d be rubbing it out to later. He had long black hair that came down in loose curls, the ends were dyed purple. She had olive skin and beestung lips transfixed into an expression befitting a mugshot- she probably had a few taken of her in her time.

“Rosenberg, you said? Doesn’t look like a doctor-lawyer-movie producer’s daughter to me.”

“Probably not, but we have another girl on our books regardless. She’s out on the floor if you want to get acquainted.”

He put the file back on the desk before walking out into the club. It was filled with the usual suspects- the group of businessmen trying to make a good impression to foreign businessmen in order to close a deal, the dribs and drabs of middle aged men hiding their wedding rings in their pockets and the occasional mouth breather, hovering around the main stage. The girls seemed to just float around, talking to the guests or leading them away for a dance. Just another night at the Vanilla Unicorn.

His eyes poured around for the girl in the picture- Miss Knight. Of course a picture of her face wasn’t enough of an indication of her dimensions but he liked what he saw so far- come on, he’d stuck his dick in a teddybear before; a real or almost-real woman would make a nice change, especially after Patricia.

He’d gone over all the girls servicing customers, none of which were her. Maybe she was doing a private dance? Who knows how many dances a schmuck in a tie will buy from a gorgeous girl like her? He headed to the bar to make time pass more than anything.

“Gimme a Jakey’s, straight up.” He asked the barmaid.

She turned around and grabbed the bottle while Trevor clasped his hands at the bar. While the girls did need a beat to dance to, the music was ever so slightly getting on his nerves.

“Just a Sprunk please.” A voice next to him said.

Lo and behond, he was greeted by the same purple-ended hair and beestung lips he had seen in the photo, only this time they were attached to a gorgeous, curvy body that was head and shoulders shorter than him and cinched in a corset, lacey boyleg panties and fishnet stockings. She looked solemn, like she’d had just about enough of her ass getting grabbed and her tits getting leered at for one night. Well, as they say, if you can’t handle the heat, get out of the kitchen- if she couldn’t handle guys ogling her perfect tits, she wouldn’t last long there.

“Well well well, the new girl. Hi there.” Trevor leered.

“Hi.” She answered robotically before receiving her drink. She clearly hadn’t been briefed on who he was yet. One thing was for certain though- if she was a doctor/lawyer/producer’s daughter, that body was definitely bought and paid for with daddy’s money. With any luck, daddy’s irresponsible choices would also be the very thing that landed her on the end of the boss’ dick by the end of the night.

“I haven’t danced with you before- you must be new.” Trevor continued, trying to get a name or some conversation out of her.

“You would be correct.” She leaned into his ear with an air of seduction hat clearly didn’t come by when she was thirsty. Either that or she’d just remembered that she actually needs to be welcoming towards customers. “Starry. Pleased to meet you.”

“Mr Phillips, but you can call me Trevor. Nice to meet you…Mercedes.”

He smirked as she pulled away. “Ahhhhh, the incomparable Mr Philips. I’ve heard a lot about you.” She ran a hand through her hair, knowing a little better that she didn’t have to slather on the charm used for men in Ponsonby suits and Rolexes.

“It’s probably all true; can’t say I’ve heard a lot about you however. Care to share?” He liked this one.

She giggled one of those deflective, half-hearted giggles. “’A woman is entitled to her secrets, Mr Philips.”

“Oh don’t worry; I can spot a fake set from a mile away. Too good to be true and all that.” He stared right down her cleavage as he said this- he could see a small tattoo looking like a heart or a flower or something sinking down between her breasts. It looked like there was a space for a name however he couldn’t make it out.

She chuckled in a tone that he read as annoyance- he was going to have a lot of fun with her. “Always leave them wanting more, Mr Philips; my mama taught me that.”

This bought out a smile in Trevor. “Well in that case, may I have a dance?”

Mercedes took a gulp of her Sprunk. “And why would you want to do that?” She answered with a coquettish innocence normally seen in schoolgirl porn.

“Well for one, I didn’t get to interview you and to be fair, I am the owner of this establishment. It’s in my job description to see if the talent are actually talented.”

She stared at him glassy-eyed for a few seconds before answering. “Alright. It’s only fair, boss. Just let me finish my drink first.”

Trevor grinned wolfishly to himself while Mercedes chugged her drink. There’s nothing quite like capping off a night with being grinded upon by a stripper that you didn’t have to pay in singles; the only thing that could possibly have made it better was if it went further and resulted in a blowjob or him shooting someone in the head. If all else failed, he did have his stash of meth in his desk drawer so the night wouldn’t be a total loss.

She took the can away from her mouth, placing it on the bar. “Let’s go.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few nights passed after Trevor’s private dance with Mercedes. It wasn’t a bad experience; she managed to maintain somewhat friendly conversation with her during, but somehow she seemed…distracted. Her brow was furrowed like something was sitting at the back of her mind and refusing to move. Still, she was on the ball whenever Trevor asked her about the tattoo placed precariously inbetween her breasts.

“Who’s Griselda?” he asked.

She grinded into his lap furiously for a second before saying “Some people in this life are either blessings or lessons Mr Philips.”

She didn’t go into it further, but she did flinch when he ran his hand over a giant scar that adorned her hip, stretching right up to just underneath her right breast.

“Where’d you get this one sweetheart?” The skin had been either charred or stitched back together haphazardly. Either way, something really nasty had happened to her.

“No,” Was all she said before taking his hands gently and placing them on her bare breasts “You’ll find that these are much softer.”

He palmed her breasts gently; they weren’t enormous, backbreaking pornstar titties by any means but rather a good handful. A _real_ good handful.

“Wow…you may just be the one woman in Los Santos that isn’t pumped with silicone in your girls here.”

She chuckled. “You flatter me.”

Ever since the dance had finished and she’d hopped off his lap, he’d missed her being there. She was gorgeous AND real; it was hard to come by in a city where plastic surgeons were on speed dial. Even the city’s whores would spend the money they’d earned from sucking cock on lip shots to make their blowjobs seem more appealing. The girls in Sandy Shores preferred tit jobs over dental work it seemed.

He wandered around the club, eyeing off his phone for the time; almost 11pm. She was due to start soon. The place was littered with the same horny guys looking for a glimpse of tits that evening; the names and the faces changed but they were all the same. One guy in particular stood out like a sore thumb; he was fat, Hispanic and had the ugliest fucking pink shirt on that Trevor had ever seen; it probably cost him a few grand from Didier Sachs. If he wasn’t dressed in similar attire and wanting to drain every dollar out of this turd without having to pull a gun on him then he might have taken him out the back and kicked his head in for being yet another fucking poser in a city that really didn’t need any more.

He was still at a bit of a loss in regards to Mercedes’ dance- she was good, _really good_ in fact but something about her was amiss. Probably first time nerves for a girl who’s presumably lived a rough as fuck life and is now dancing to support a habit of some variety- wouldn’t surprise him if they’d been neighbours once before in Sandy Shores….nah, she’d be hocking her ass to toothless meth heads by now, so he would’ve definitely seen her before.

Nevertheless, there were other girls and other douchebags to keep his eyes on.

Sapphire and Infernus had the stage; Trevor’s logic was that two girls were always better than one so he’d introduced double dances to reel the punters and their wallets in. They looked good up there, but it wasn’t terribly different to any other night. As much as he loved being surrounded by beautiful women on a nightly basis, Trevor did have to admit that he missed the life; Ron had Trevor Philips Enterprises under control in Sandy Shores, Mike and Franklin continued to reap the benefits of the Union Depository job and Chef kept churning out glass grade meth for the fine citizens of Blaine County. He was at the top of his game as a career criminal and there was nothing stopping him from taking what he wanted when he wanted; the only problem was he didn’t know where to go from there. Would another Wei Cheng come along looking for an international drug agreement? Who knew at this point?

“Alright, alright that was the Twins of Desire, Sapphire and Infernus, give it up!” The DJ shouted as the girls trotted offstage, dollar bills in hand. “Now our next sweetheart is a Vanilla Unicorn virgin,” that statement managed to urge a few whoops and catcalls out of the audience. “She’s from the Deep South and she’s bought her lasso in to round up some cowboys, give it up for Starrrrrrrry Knight!”

Before Trevor could beat eight shades of shit out of the DJ for a truly terrible introduction, Mercedes was on the stage, clad only in a sparkly corset, holster, panties and cowgirl hat. The music started to play; Play Something Country by Brooks and Dunn. Trevor just stood, soaking in the sight of Mercedes shaking her hips in time with a country twang that would’ve otherwise felt like glass being smashed into his ear.

**_Yes, she blew through the door like TNT,_ **

**_Put her hand on her hip, pointed a finger at me._ **

“She’s done this one before…” Trevor thought to himself as he saw her swing her hips around suggestively; what he wouldn’t have given at that point for her to be on his lap doing that again….

**_Said: “I’m a whiskey drinkin’, cowboy chasin’, helluva time._ **

**_“I like Kenny, Keith, Allan and Patsy Cline._ **

**_“I’m a full grown Queen Bee lookin’ for honey.”_ **

She climbed up onto the pole and managed to spin upside down, stopping right in front of the gobsmacked Didier Sachs dickhead in the pink shirt.

**_“Ha-ooh-hooo, aw, play somethin’ country.”_ **

She looked focused on her dance, like she was either terrified she was going to screw up or if this was second nature to her. The Didier Sachs dickhead kept throwing bills at her- seemed he was a fan of the cowgirl getup. He was leaning over the railing throwing dollar bill after dollar bill, hoping that she’d even make the slightest eye contact with him.

She flipped off the pole and stuck her hands into her holster, pulling out two nickel-plated pistols to a room that responded with “Ooooooh!”. In her small hands, they looked more like hand cannons than a simple concealable weapon- probably filled with water or a shot of vodka or something. As she pulled them out, she threw Trevor a small wink as he downed some of his beer. Just the acknowledgement alone was enough to bring a half-smile to his scarred mug.

**_Yeah, the band took a break,_ **

**_The DJ played P Diddy._ **

She locked eyes with Didier Sachs, now salivating over her gyrating hips and bedroom eyes. She seemed to respond well to the guy whom had thrown dollar after dollar at her for what was less than a minute of dancing, smiling seductively and she writhed.

**_She said “I didn’t come to hear,_ **

**_“Somethin’ thumpin’ from the city.”_ **

Mercedes still had the same expression as she bought her pistol up to the guy’s mouth. He smiled back, playing along with the ‘cowgirl stick-up’ routine. She’d lifted the gun up to the guy’s mouth, urging him to put his mouth around the barrel.

**_Said, “I, I shaved my legs, I paid my money.”_ **

He complied, looking at her still. With the same damn smile on her face, she said something to the man. The look of terror in his face was evident for a whole of a split second before she pulled the trigger.

**_“Ha-ooh-hoo, play somethin’ country._ **

The bullet made its way through his skull, hitting the ceiling of the Vanilla Unicorn and taking a few chunks out of it. The Didier-Sachs dickhead and his vulgar pink shirt fell to the floor, without a face,  blood and grey matter seeping into the carpet. Strippers and patrons screamed at the sight, trying to register the fact that a man was now dead on the floor thanks to one of the dancers.

**_“Ha-ooh-hoo, aw, play somethin’ country.”_ **

Mercedes holstered her guns before turning around and running back out of the stage entrance. The cacophony of screaming, running and just absolute chaos became melded into white noise. Thankfully Trevor was no stranger to people meeting their sad, sudden end and leaving a bloodied mess all over the carpet.

“CLEAN THIS MESS UP NOW!” He shouted at a pair of stunned security guards. Obviously the closest thing they’d seen to this was a punch-up in the carpark after a few too many drinks. Still, they heard their orders loud and clear as Trevor pushed his way through the hysterics through to the girls’ dressing room. There were strippers holding eachother, strippers crying and strippers just wanting to run the hell out.

“Where did she go?” He said to a quivering Juliet. All she could muster was a terrified whine. “WHERE DID SHE GO?”

“T-that way!” She cried, pointing towards his office. The door was still swinging.

He bolted towards it, running around his desk and pulling out a sawn-off shotgun. He stomped angrily over towards the door leading to the back of the club, pulling it open violently.  Outside, the whole city of Los Santos was oblivious to the shooting that had just gone down inside his club. In front of him however, Mercedes was piling into a black SUV, accompanied by three other men in dark suits. It had dawned on Trevor that maybe she wasn’t just a run-of-the-mill psychopath whom decided to shoot up an innocent (but still douchey) patron for the sake of shooting up an innocent patron. No….that was planned. Probably from the time she handed in her resume with that mugshot of a photo of hers.

She caught a glimpse of Trevor just as she was closing the door. The girl, after everything, had the nerve to wink at him just as she did during her dance.

“I’ve got to hand it to you kid….you’ve managed to surprise me.” He muttered to himself as he headed towards his red Bodhi, tyres squealing against the tarmac.


	2. Strap 'em Up, Let's Go For a Ride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys- sorry for the inevitable mistakes and typos in this chapter; I've pretty much been writing like a fiend all day trying to get this one done, haha! Thank you for all your kudoses and thanks to Sera22 for their really sweet comment! 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this chapter; it's a bit choppy in parts but hopefully not entirely illegible.

The black SUV ducked and weaved in and out of traffic like Franklin trying to escape the cops on any given day; calm, calculated and not causing a scene that would attract any unwanted attention. Trevor ghosted them a few cars behind, trying not to attract the drivers’ attention; he was man enough to admit that while he didn’t have the heart to turn his Bodhi in for scrap (as much as the piece of shit refused to start at any given time), he was able to admit that it wasn’t exactly a vehicle built for stealth. Not with Mr Raspberry Jam strapped to the front of it anyway. He wanted to know why Mercedes felt the need to pump a bullet right through the skull of a patron when dancers are supposed to y’know… _dance_.

In the SUV, Mercedes sat in silence.

“Is it done, Boss Lady?” the driver asked.

“If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t be sitting here. You should know that by now Carlos.” She deadpanned.

Everything had gone according to plan in her eyes. Now all she needed to do was get back to her hotel, check out and then check into the Richman. She felt over the seam of her wallet- the message had been sent loud and clear; about a hundred odd patrons saw that. It was unraveling just like she’d planned.

They were on the highway by now; thankfully it wasn’t a long drive to the Opium Nights hotel. She needed to get rid of her cowgirl getup and wash off all the gunpowder that was sticking to her skin. Then there was the matter of the guns; they weren’t registered but that wouldn’t stop a Dudley Do-Right of an officer from trying to chase it up. Probably best to withdraw some money, just in case.

As they pulled up out the front of the hotel, Mercedes and her cohorts spotted a few black sedans parked out the front of the entrance with about six or so men leaning up against them. She didn’t recognize any of the faces, but she knew why they were there. Six men to her four- of course the bitch had to one-up (or in this case, two-up) her when it came to bringing firepower.

As she stepped out of the car still in her cowgirl outfit, the tallest of the bunch, clad in a suit straight out of 1985 and a haircut that probably cost him more than it was worth smirked. “You’ve gravely disappointed my employer, madam.”

Mercedes was halfway between kicking herself for having this happen and pleased that they had arrived; shooting one man in the face in a public setting sent one hell of a message, but shooting the remaining six, well….that was just priceless wasn’t it? Her presence in Lost Santos would be known after this. She was so wrapped up in the prospect of her plan going a better than she would’ve anticipated that she didn’t notice Trevor pulling up on the opposite side of the street, taking cover behind the door of his truck. What the hell was going on with her?

“Maybe your employer is deserving of that disappointment. Maybe your employer bought all of this on her damn self; did that ever occur to you or do you just blindly follow her whims like you have no mind of your own?”

The taller man’s smirk veered into becoming a leer. Trevor could see that behind him and behind Mercedes, the men began to reach for their weapons. “I do what I can to earn my living, which is more than a half-breed, Vice City _gringa_ cunt like you have ever done in your life so I’m told.” He spat his words at her derisively, invading her personal space. He was trying to intimidate her but was met with a cocksure scoff.

“Careful. Using words like that is one of the many fast ways you can get yourself killed.”

The man’s face hardened. “We’ll see.”

It took a matter of seconds for the man to reach for a pistol in his jacket and for Mercedes to pull out one of her own and shoot the man in the throat. The man in turn was shooting in any direction he could until he fell onto his back, still firing; one of the bullets grazed Mercedes' upper arm, making her whince. It was a scene that made Trevor feel right at home- two sides firing their guns until they heard an ominous click. The men shuffled over behind cover while their leader (or the one whom seemed like their leader at least) convulsed on the ground, spending his last few moments of life with blood filling his lungs. Chunks of plaster and stone flew as bullets from both sides tried in vain to spray the other side. From inside the hotel, two security guards were running towards the doors while the concierge pulled an incessant, deafening alarm.

The splatter from the close-range gunshot had fell onto Mercedes’ breasts and had began to stain the corset. It was the least of her worries however- she was the target of five different men, all of whom seemed to lack precision in their shooting; Trevor could feel a few stray slugs hitting the side of his truck. She concealed herself behind a thick concrete pole on the edge of the front garden, trying not to get caught in the crossfire.

Two were hiding behind a faux-garden at the entrance when the security guards came out- both were burly and looked like they could take everyone down easily with their fists, but that’s not incredibly useful when you have about nine armed-to-the-teeth people standing outside your establishment, ready to cut down anyone whom stood in their way.

“THROW DOWN YOUR WEAPONS AND PUT YOUR HAN-“ the guards were cut off with numerous gunshots in the back, falling down face-first into the tarmac. Inside, a concierge screamed at the carnage going on out the front, pulling a loud, incessant alarm on in the process. This was just about the perfect time for Trevor to pull out his sawn-off.

Mercedes had both of her pistols out, looking around the pole every so often for someone sticking their head out for far too long. All she needed was the scalp and she’d be fine; they’d be out of there in minutes. One of the men managed to make this mistake after looking for one of his cohorts- before he could shout out for them, she’d dispatched of him with another bullet through the throat. It seemed that she would have preferred them to suffer rather than put them through the quick-and-easy method that she utilized back in the Vanilla Unicorn. He climbed out from behind the truck and ran across the other side of the road, hiding in the greenery out the front. He’d avoided enough bullets in his lifetime-he was sure that he’d survive a shootout where he wasn’t the target.

To the untrained eye, she was as cool as a cucumber, hardly breaking a sweat over the remaining men firing in her direction. Trevor could see her leaving up against the pole, digging around in her tits. On any other day, he would’ve seen this as a turn on until he saw what looked like a small bomb coming out of her cleavage. With one hand, she slipped out the pin and rolled it along the gravel, jumping back behind cover as soon as she could. Trevor scrambled behind a palm tree- just because he didn’t make it as a member of the Royal Canadian Air Force didn’t mean that he didn’t know how hard a grenade could fuck up a small area in a short amount of time. This crazy girl was suicidal.

It wasn’t a grenade she threw. Looked like one, but one it finally exploded it fired what seemed to be bullets or ball bearings or _something_ in every direction imaginable. Trevor saw some of them whiz past his head. They managed to take chunks out of the walls and poles, they cracked the thick plate glass next to the doors while making the doors splinter into a million shards. Two of the men it seemed had been killed by it- whatever that thing was, it had done its job.

Mercedes’ other three men had managed to kill off one of the remaining two by with Mercedes finishing the last by striding over to the faux garden and aiming her pistol over it. She gritted her teeth as she fired the last shot, culminating in a giant thud’ against the wall. She took a breath after the blood pissing out of his nose ears confirmed that the last henchman was indeed bereft of life. Now all she had to worry about was finding a safehouse and somehow finding a way of walking back into the hotel to retrieve her belongings, extra guns, whatever. For now however, she’d survived.

Her three accomplices stood behind her, two of which brought their guns down to their waists. The Boss lady was a stern one but as far as they were concerned, they didn’t have a voice.  For better or worse, they were hired for this purpose.

Trevor could see the man standing in the middle of the three pulling out his gun again. She was completely oblivious to the man aiming his own pistol at the base of the skull of one of the men he’d fought beside. Pulling the trigger, a bullet discharged through the man’s face, forcing him to fall to his knees and onto the tarmac. Mercedes turned around as soon as she heard it, eyes wide. Her henchman standing beside him however had a gun in his face before he could even comprehend what was going on.

When the last body had hit the driveway, she screamed. “CARLOS, WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?”

Carlos, as Trevor knew him as now, began to stride towards her with his gun still in his hand. “Sorry Boss Lady, but consider this my notice.”

With that, he backhanded her across the face with the hand that held his gun. Something went off in Trevor that only came by whenever anyone mentioned his mother and the word ‘ _motherfucker_ ’ in the same context. As unhinged as he was, he couldn’t stand to see a woman getting slapped around; maybe it had something to do with his mother and fathers’ tumultuous relationship, maybe not- he just became royally pissed hearing the term being flung around.

The force from the slap threw her onto the ground, where Carlos pistol-whipped her in the back of the head. With a quick ‘thud’, she laid motionless on the tiles of the Opium Nights hotel.

He stood back, seeming pretty happy with his work. From what Trevor could deduce, Carlos was a man that Mercedes had trusted and he in turn, betrayed her. He didn’t know his reasons for doing so but in his eyes, it’s only a gutless fuck that turns on his crew like that.

Carlos knelt over Mercedes’ body. “By the way _gringa_ , Griselda says ‘hi’.” He said to her, oblivious to the 6’2” Canadian coming up behind him.

This was just about enough. Trevor rammed his knee into the small of Carlos’ back, grabbing a fistful of his hair and slamming it into the ground. The man didn’t know what hit him, or what his attacker had in store for him.

“YOU THINK IT’S AN AWESOME IDEA TO HIT WOMEN, HUH? THINK IT’S PARTICULARLY PIQUANT TO KILL THE PEOPLE YOU’RE RUNNING WITH, HUH? OOH, PEOPLE LIKE YOU MAKE ME SICK!”

He kept slamming Carlos’ head into the ground, causing cracks and growing bloody smears to appear in the tiles. Carlos let out a continuous whine of “Eh, what the fuck man?” and “Please stop!” until his face became an unrecognisable bloodied pulp. When he was satisfied, Trevor turned Carlos onto his back, snarling into his barely conscious face.

“You do NOT betray your crew, no matter who the fuck they are. You do NOT lay your hands on a woman, no matter how much you think it will make you a fucking gangster. You sir, are a fucking scumbag and that’s saying a helluva lot coming from the likes of me.”

By the time he finished the last words Carlos would ever hear, he’d already pulled out his sawnoff and and stood over him, shooting his bloodied mess of a head right across the entrance of the hotel.

He could already hear police sirens coming from a mile away- his paranoia that came as a part of the package that is a meth habit had fine-tuned his senses to know when cops were coming and exactly how long he had to get the fuck out.

He scuttled over to Mercedes’ body. If she was dead, he’d have no explanation for what happened back at the club so at this point, it was in his best interest to have her alive. He put his fingers to her pulse under her jaw; a faint but still existent heartbeat was there.

“Come on honey, we need to get you home,” He said at an elevated volume as he picked her up, carrying her bridal-style away from the carnage. Her head lay on his shoulder. “If you keep going like this pumpkin, people are going to think you’re an alcoholic.”

He ran as fast as one carrying a good 145 pounds of not-quite-dead weight could run, scooting past the manicured lawns and across the road to his truck. There were a few bullet holes in the side but if he managed to just get the fuck out of there, he’d be able to keep the both of them from attracting any kind of police attention for the evening.

“Just got to-“ He pushed her onto the seat of his Bodhi, leaning over and clicking a seatbelt into place over her. “Know when to stop, baby.”

When she was in place, he ran over to the other side, throwing himself into the driver’s seat. For once, the Bodhi started on the first go, prompting Trevor to put his pedal to the medal and make a U Turn out the front of the hotel. In the corner of his eye, red and blue lights flashed in the distance- ‘ _Always count on the reliability of the LSPD- providing safer streets for the citizens of Los Santos!’_ he chuckled to himself as he sped off around the corner, making his way to the La Puerta Freeway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what does Trevor have planned exactly? Why the hell didn't he intervene earlier? And, what the hell is Mercedes' deal? Watch this space to find out!


	3. This Is A Bad Town For Such A Pretty Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the third chapter; I was a little worried about there being too much dialogue but hopefully it's ok. Enjoy!

She woke up in a cold sweat, in a state of paralysis that normally follows a state of awakening. The last thing she could remember was Carlos’ betrayal…god, why would he do such a thing? She had to admit that he did seem a little cagey in the days leading up to the Vanilla Unicorn hit; if her father was around, he would’ve chastised her for not knowing better, for choosing a gunman that evidently did not know his place.

Her surroundings were as unfamiliar as they could be- she’d stared at the ceiling of her Opium Nights hotel room enough times to know that she wasn’t currently laying on the bed in her hotel suite; for one, there weren’t cobwebs in the cornices or a smashed TV set waiting at the foot of her bed. Just what the fuck happened outside the lobby? God, at this point she’d take a simple time, date and location as an explanation. If Griselda had found her, she’d be dead by now or at the very least in agonizing pain, certainly not on a somewhat comfortable if a bit foul-smelling bed.

She rolled over, looking at the bedside table. Along with the lamp and the meth pipe placed on it, her holster lay across it, along with her two nickel-plated pistols. She snatched one, feeling over it and unclipped the magazine; the damn thing was empty and it was the same for the other. Some son of a bitch unloaded her gun while she was out cold. The cold metal of her necklace was still around her neck at least.

“One of those rainy days I guess…” she said, digging around in her tits until she felt a spare magazine on her fingertips. She yanked it out, slamming it into the body of the gun as quickly and quietly as she could. If that son of a bitch was still around, she had to be ready. Who knows what they wanted to do with her.

She felt around one of the zips on her corset, unzipping it- there was an empty space where her wallet belonged. Whoever they were, they’d given her a thorough going-over. “Fucking Los Santos hicks….” She whispered to herself.

The sound of footsteps came from the next room. It had become instinctive at this point to clutch her gun at the faintest sound. She aimed it towards the door as a tall, skinny man walked towards it. It was Mr Philips, dressed in a flannelette shirt straight out of _Deliverance_ and pair of jeans that had probably never made a trip through a washing machine.

He stood there, nursing his shotgun with an irritating grin on his face. “Looks like you’re up, princess.”

“Do not call me that.” She responded unflinchingly and as politely as one can whilst sticking a gun in someone’s face.

“Well what should I call you then?” He pulled her wallet out of his breast pocket. It became evident that he’d not only removed her wallet but gone through it as well.”Mercedes?” He showed her one of her drivers’ licenses before flicking it on the floor. “Maria? How about Natalia? Rosanne?” he kept pulling out licenses and flicking them on the floor in front of her. The jig was up. “We have a Michelle here, we have Sofia, Adalita and Carmen. We have Paulina, Isabella, Emilia, Magdalena and we have Renata.” When the last license fell, he rose the barrel of his shotgun to point at her. “Now, these all have the same damn photo on them and they look pretty legit, so if you don’t mind telling me- which one of these is real?”

He had a snide, sour way of going about the fact that he’d found all of her IDs; she’d never responded well to being backed into a corner and she wasn’t about to start now. “And why would I do that?”

That grin only got wider- a lion baring its teeth came to mind. “Because princess, you’re currently holding an unloaded pistol while I am carrying a loaded sawn off shotgun, so not only can I shoot you with this, but I’ll make a big fucking mess of your bleeding corpse that you’ll be unrecognizable without DNA testing. I don’t particularly want to do that over the place where I sleep so now, what’s your damn name and which one is your _real_ driver’s license?”

Like a natural reflex, she aimed the gun into the ceiling, firing a single bullet through the trailer’s roof, making dust and other residue come off in a puff. She’d shown that she wasn’t bluffing.

As an immediate reaction, Trevor aimed into the cornice above her head, firing into it and sending asbestos dust everywhere. He wasn’t bluffing either.

“Asshole! You could’ve killed me with the buckshot!”

He’d aimed at her again, both hands on the shotgun like he meant business. “NAME, NOW! NO MORE FUCKING AROUND!”

This was defeat. This was what defeat felt like, slinking off a bedspread onto the floor, shuffling through IDs with her big toe until she found her real one. The one that revealed everything. In close quarters, he smelled like alcohol and sweat- the kind of sweat that has that lingering chemical smell that only serious drug addicts seem to carry. She flicked it with her toes until it slipped between the gap of her big toe and the rest of her toes. She bent her knee up, taking it from the gap and holding it between two of her fingers. “This one.”

He took it from her with his own two fingers mockingly, studying the details. “Adalita Vercetti.” The name set off an alarm bell that resonated throughout his face. By this point, she’d sat herself back down on the edge of the bed. “ _You’re_ Adalita Vercetti?”

“My reputation precedes me it seems.” She responded.

Trevor could see a flurry of headlines that had been strewn across Weazel News over the years- he remember being a young punk freshly kicked out of the Royal Canadian Air Force hearing about some mob goon that had killed eleven men in one sitting (back then that seemed like a lot) and had taken control of the cocaine industry down in Vice City. Ever since then his daughter Adalita and his son Daniel had made quite the reputation in the criminal underworld as enforcers in the family business, whatever degree of legitimacy that happened to be- movie studios, strip joints, coffee houses, hotels, concert halls, marinas; Vercetti had not only survived the drug business but had managed to create an empire. Any problem that landed them in a court of law ALWAYS resulted in an acquittal. The Vercetti family had killed, robbed, shot, blew up, stabbed, extorted and racketeered their way into legitimacy, all while funneling a nice supply of cocaine into the United States. And people said there were no more family-owned businesses anymore.

“Good Christ….” For once, Trevor was bewildered, emitting a disbelieving chuckle against his control. “And to think I thought you were shaking your ass to feed a habit.”

Adalita was still clutching her gun. “I have more than enough money in my bank account Mr Philips to feed any habit I may have, but thank you for your concern.” The sarcasm dripped from her words like honey.

Trevor gained his composure. “Still doesn’t explain why you blew the head off one of my patrons though.”

She looked up at him with a glare that could’ve melted an iceberg. It was frustrating having him dig deeper than he had to; the bastard just wasn’t going to let up. “Business is business, Mr Philips. Sometimes you have to shoot a few heads to get where and what you want.”

“First off, cut it out with that ‘Mr Philips’ shit, it’s getting on my nerves. Second of all, I agree- business is business so when you fuck with my business, I’m going to have a problem, are we clear?”

It seemed like Adalita’s facial expression was now freeze-dried into a permanent scowl. “Crystal.”

He leaned against the doorframe. “So, what are you doing here in Los Santos, blowing the heads off random dudes in strip joints?”

She leaned forward, inadvertently giving him a nice view of her cleavage. “How do I know you won’t turn me in to the police?”

He let out a throaty chuckle. “Trust me princess, I’m the last guy who’s going to turn you in to law enforcement of any variety.”

“And why might that be?” She was indignant, even when he told her he wasn’t going to tip off the LSPD as to where whereabouts. It was safe to say at this point, he liked her.

“You’re looking at the biggest methamphetamine distributor in Los Santos and Blaine County.”

Her face softened a little, but not by much. “Ahhhh….so you understand my business.”

“Indeed I do.”

She was silent, soaking in the knowledge presented to her by this man. When you’re in the drug business, whether you’re dealing quarter ounces on some dingy-fuck street corner or boarding a flight with a dozen condoms inside you or living it up in a beachside mansion with wads of cash at your fingertips, someone’s always got to die. You can’t rise through the ranks or even plainly survive in the drug business if you’re the non-violent type; that’s why you never hear of any hippie burnout druglord preaching about ‘Peace, love and good vibes maaaaaan’ while pushing weight across state lines. This was 2013, not 1965- the hippies sold their supply to medical marijuana dispensaries while the coke queens like herself continued to value and execute their right to bear arms. To survive, you had to continue to climb the ladder and shoot down any fucker in your way- those that got lazy got killed, simple as that.

“I take it you’re no stranger to murder for the sake of bettering one’s business then?”

Trevor could’ve rattled off any name- Ortega, The Aztecas, The Brothers O’Neil, The Lost MC, Leon, Steve Haines, Devin Weston…all of which only happened in the last few months. Instead, he just shook his head. “Nope. No stranger to a bit of bloodshed in the name of business.”

She breathed out of her nose, wondering what would be the best way to explain her situation. She wasn’t even sure if she trusted this man to not drug her and rape her, let alone trust him with the reason she flew over to Los Santos in the first place. For all she knew, Griselda could’ve hired him to keep her hostage and slowly torture her into madness. Only one way to find out.

“I am here to kill someone. Someone whom is endangering my business, my personal life and my family. The person whom I shot, they happen to work for that person. It was a ‘casting of the first stone’, so to speak.”

If she’d just left it at ‘business’ and ‘personal life’, Trevor would’ve shrugged it off and told her to go for her life, Ammunation’s not that far, happy killing. Family was mentioned, family….to endanger not just Vercetti’s daughter but the Vercetti clan, this person must to have been a rivaling bigtime drug dealer. Hell, he knew the extent of which they’d go to wipe out anyone even dreaming of becoming competition on their home turf, so to send one cross-country…they must’ve been something special, even by murderous international drug dealer standards.

“Leaving a message…good for you, not so good for my carpet. Who’s your mark?”

A few seconds passed before Adalita brought her hands up to her corset, using one to unzip it slightly. She held her breasts as best she could as she revealed her tattoo. “A few nights ago, my tattoo interested you, yes?”

“ _Some people in this life are either blessings or lessons Mr Philips._ ” echoed in his mind. The proverbial smoke surrounding that phrase was beginning to clear.

“Griselda. Griselda Diaz. I’m here to kill her, so if you’re working for her then you best stay out of my way. Unless you have a deathwish that is.”

Trevor didn’t, despite all behavior up until that point suggesting otherwise. What he did have was a keen sense of opportunity- if this person was a rival drug dealer, then they’d have to have at the absolute least some cash or other vulgar displays of wealth laying around (kind of came with the territory in Los Santos). If they were a smart drug dealer and if they were lucky, they’d have weapons close by as well as a few loose keys of whatever drug had a market nowadays. It would be a treasure trove of shit that they wouldn’t or couldn’t report stolen to the police and if they sent some goons to retrieve it, so be it. Trevor Philips had taken on entire platoons single-handedly before; he could take out whatever this woman had to throw at them. This was exactly what he’d been waiting for.

“Sounds great, when do we start hunting her down?” He answered excitedly.

Adalita’s face was awash in confusion. “This is a one-person job. I do not need your assistance.”

“Riiight, because you clearly did so well out the front of the hotel, I forgot.”

She breathed out of her nose like one does when someone’s really starting to get on one’s nerves. “The circumstances were unanticipated, that is all.”

“Carlos knocked you the fuck out just after shooting your two buddies; I’d say your circumstances would’ve been completely fucked if it weren’t for me. By the way, you’re welcome Adalita- sure I had to leave my club in chaos in order to follow your ass to the hotel but it was no trouble killing the fucker who was about to kill you, then driving your ass back here so you’d be safe away from cops. Really, no fuckin’ problem!”

Trevor sounded hurt in his speech. Fair enough, she’d be dead by now if he hadn’t intervened. “Thank you Trevor, but you haven’t exactly told me where ‘here’ is.”

“You’re in Sandy Shores m’dear, so you’re a few hours away from the cesspit that is Los Santos. So, if this Griselda woman goes looking for you around there, she has a bit of a way to travel. It’s been my experience around here that people won’t talk if they know what’s good for them, especially with me by your side.”

“I still haven’t said that you can join me in this. I appreciate your enthusiasm but you don’t understand…” her voice had softened a little, like a girl turning down a guy who’d asked her to prom. Trevor never was one for rejection.

“No, no, no, YOU don’t understand sweetheart. When you decided to send a message to this woman at the expense of my club, you fucked with my business. Now, should I let you run off and complete this hit without me, I’m still going to have to do a fuck of a lot of damage control thanks to you because in Los Santos, people don’t want to come to a strip joint where the dancers end up killing the patrons mid-song. Now, instead of getting my panties all in a twist over it, the way I see it is that you can amend the issue by letting me assist you in putting this woman in the ground or at the bottom of the Pacific, whatever; all for a cut of whatever the hell you can get after you kill her. Not just that, but right now you have no one left too to back you up and have managed to almost get yourself killed once already; I’m a local resident, I know my way around a weapon and I happen to know the drug business here. I’m a golden fucking ticket as far as you’re concerned.”

Adalita leaned back on her elbows- he could just see the fury building up in her eyes. She wasn’t used to being between a rock and a hard place like this and it read all over her face. The truth was she didn’t have a leg to stand on, not in an unfamiliar city where the only sentient part of her crew was the pieces of brain splattered all over the entrance of the Opium Nights hotel. Being stubborn was not an option.

“Fine.”

He raised his eyebrows, trying to coax a bit more of an answer out of her. “That’s it?”

There’s no taste as bitter as swallowing one’s pride. “Well it’s not like I have a choice now is it?”

Trevor could only smile. “You won’t regret this.”

“I sure hope not.”

Trevor looked over into the dank blackness that lay over his trailer like a blanket with only the green glow of his wall-mounted Benedict sign lighting the room. His meth pipe laid precariously on the armrest of his couch while Patricia’s touch lingered over the place like a painful memory. It was a painful memory- he damn well missed her, but pining for her wouldn’t get her back. She made a vow to her asshole husband and aimed to stick to it and to this day it still broke his heart to hear her on the phone, ending the call terrified because of that bastard. The place was still neat as anything and in moments like this, it pulled at him.

Still, he had an empty couch.

“It’s safe to say at this point that Griselda knew where you were staying, so since I’m a gentleman as well, you can stay here. I have the bed, I have a couch. Pick one.” He really didn’t mind what he was stuck with; either way, he’d be jerking off and smoking meth regardless of the scenery.

“The bed, please.”

Trevor moved his hand like he was presenting the bed to her. He moved out into the loungeroom while Adalita  shuffled off the bed and sat against the wall, facing the doorway. She held her gun with a fierce grip still- it would’ve taken a crowbar to pry it out of her hands. She’d known this man for only a few days and now he was offering to run with her and gave her his bed? There must’ve been a catch.

Trevor sat down and was about to put the pipe to his mouth then he saw a glint of moonlight reflecting off the gun. “C’mon, what the fuck are ya’ doing?”

She shook her head once. “It’s going to be a long night. I’m making assurances you won’t try to rape me in my sleep.”

“Is that so sweetheart?” He stood up and picked up his shotgun, pipe still in hand. He walked over to the bedroom, sitting against the opposite wall to her.

“By that logic, you might kill me in my sleep if you’re willing to pull a gun on a person who’s been kind enough to give you a bed.”

He brought the pipe up to his lips, lighting it with one hand and nursing the gun with the other.

“What can I say? I’m not the trusting type.”

His eyelids fell heavy against his eyes as the drugs made their way comfortingly into his lungs. He couldn’t quite describe the feeling of smoking except that he did it the way that people have their morning coffee or their late-night tug-job from a hooker. It was a source of comfort for him, and the good thing was it made him alert; depressants had a habit of turning people into useless fucking junkies. Speed got shit done.

“Lucky for you, I’m not the sleeping type.”


	4. So Honey, Go Grab Your Gun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter's unedited for the time being as around my neck of the woods, it's almost 6am and I just want to get this out there but I will edit it soon. This is also going on the angle of the Subtle approach in The Big Score, so I hope you enjoy it!

The pair sat in the cold, dark silence for what felt like hours but probably equated more to minutes- when you’re bored, time has a habit of making itself stretch out to a torturous length. The sound of blood vessels just echoing in one’s ear was enough to drive one to lunge across the room and shoot the person sitting against the opposite wall. However, for Trevor and Adalita, they just sat in a silent stalemate, nursing their guns and occasionally looking at one another- Trevor would sometimes throw over the odd wink, earning Adalita’s wordless scorn.

Trevor mulled over the events of that day- he woke up, jerked off to the copy of Amputeens underneath his bed, smoked some meth, saw Ron for a rundown of his profits that week, took a few new guns off the shelves at Ammunation, got dressed (he’d done all of the previous things in only a set of y-fronts), drove down to Vinewood, beat eight shades of shit out of one of those Epsilon program idiots who tried to push some asshole diety named Kifflom onto him, spent some time at the casino only to be thrown out by some bouncers with some clear issues about the naked body, spent the remainder of the day in the Vanilla Unicorn getting dances from the girls every few hours, watched ‘Mercedes’ shoot a man through the skull during a dance, followed her to the Opium Nights hotel where he watched her kill six men, saw her get knocked out by one of her own men whose head he splattered against the pavement, escaped the cops with her unconscious in the front seat, laid her out on his bed and proceeded to down a few beers and rub one out in the toilet before she woke up. That was his day, in order. Somehow he’d managed to go from being under the blissful pretense of her being Mercedes, the doctor-lawyer-movie producer’s daughter with potential daddy issues and a new career as a stripper to being ingrained in the criminalities of Adalita, daughter of a coke baron and all round stone cold killer in her own right. He wasn’t sure if the glee he was feeling came from that, the meth or the fact that he was now in a seated standoff with the woman.

“What’s the time?” She asked, finally.

Trevor smirked. “Look out, she speaks.”

She squinted for a moment in lieu of saying she wasn’t impressed. “What is the time?” each word was enunciated with her razor-sharp tongue.

As he fumbled around trying to juggle his pipe and gun whilst he searched for his phone, Adalita couldn’t help but feel her brow furrow at the situation. She’d come over to this pit of a city in order to do one thing, which was kill Griselda. She’d been here a week and hadn’t gotten any closer to doing anything she set out to do besides kill her henchman halfway through a cowgirl-themed pole dance. She hadn’t found anyone she was looking for, unless you counted six more of her henchmen, one lying prick and the meth head that sat across from her. Her entire operation was fucked from the get-go thanks to Carlos and now, better or worse, she was lobbed with this junkie whom was probably more of a hindrance than a help, all because he happened to find her IDs and be in the right place at the right time. The possibilities of him killing her, raping her, drugging her or handing her over to either Griselda or the law were still on the table. The least he could do was give her the fucking time.

“It’s 4am, _princess_.” He used the term to get a rise out of her, knowing full well that it would work.

“If we are to be working together, you are not to call me ‘princess’ under any circumstances, understood?”

It was rather hard to take her seriously when she was still in her outfit from the Vanilla Unicorn. “Hate to break it to you but you do not get to call the shots here. Not when you’re pointing a gun at me, _princess._ ”

She sighed vexedly through her nose before looking out of the doorway- it was a far cry from her father’s mansion but it was certainly low-key, at least from the inside. She hoped this Sandy Shores place was a little more off-the-grid than the hotel, although being down one deceitful son of a bitch was certain to work in her favour. It was going to be a while before she got over that one.

Trevor studied her; anywhere at anytime other than this, he would’ve called her cute. He liked the image of a gorgeous girl in a corset and panties nursing a firearm, just not when said firearm was pointed at him. Her jaw was square like her father’s but thankfully she hadn’t inherited his chin; now that he knew that she was Vercetti’s daughter, it became more and more evident how much she looked like her old man. Trevor was coloured curious.

Juggling her pistol, she brought her hands up to her necklace. The pendant itself was a medium-sized heart covered in what looked like diamonds. She unscrewed the link of the pendant that was attached to the chain; on the end was a little spoon with a tiny mound of white powder on it, like a snowy hill straight out of North Yankton. She carefully brought the spoon up to her right nostril and snorted the contents in a single, quick huff, shutting her eyes tightly and holding her nose. After a moment, she opened her eyes wide, left out a breath and promptly sealed her pendant back up as if she was putting the brush back into a mascara.

Trevor, despite his own drug habits, career of choice and interaction with like-minded people, sat astounded at the sight.

“What?” she asked abrasively. She didn’t like the way he looked at her.

“Nothing…just catching the sight of Daddy’s Little Assassin being Daddy’s Little Coke Fiend as well. You haven’t failed to surprise.” He wore the same disbelieving smile as he did when he found out who she was.

“You’re one to talk, smoking up goddamn trucker’s dust…besides, if I’m going to prevent you from throat-fucking me against my will, I’ve got to stay awake don’t I?” She snorted again, wiping her nose. “And I can stop whenever I want to.”

He snickered for a moment. “You keep telling yourself that, Cokey Smurf.”

“I’m missing blue skin and white hair, but ok.” She responded with derision at his new choice of nickname.

“Where’d you get the names on your IDs?” He asked.

“Do you normally pull this ‘getting to know you’ gig on girls you’re aiming a gun at?” It seemed that she was prickly like her old man too.

“Given that you’re also aiming a gun at me, putting us both in reasonably abnormal situation then yes, I wanna break the boredom a little bit. Now, where did you get the names?”

“Most of them are from my brother’s ex girlfriends. I mixed up the surnames so there’d be no nasty surprises from the DMV or anyone else.” She seemed to have a sardonic drip to her words whenever she spoke.

“Where’d Mercedes Rosenberg come from?”

Something attempting to be a smile cracked across her face. “Mercedes comes from my mother. Mrs Mercedes Vercetti. You might know her as Mercedes LaCorrida.”

Trevor’s eyes went wide. Mercedes LaCorrida was a porn legend. In 1986, her debut with Candy Suxx in Closer Encounters broke pornographic records and to this day was revered as a masterpiece for its graphic content- Trevor had worn out his old VHS copy a long time ago. Thanks to its controversial spotlight campaign in Vice City, it made millions upon millions for InterGlobal Films, Suxx and LaCorrida and thrust them to the status of porn royalty. A few more big-budget productions later, InterGlobal Films became Vercetti Studios with Mercedes LaCorrida as a star, producer, director, shareholder and acting CEO with Candy Suxx as a lifetime contract girl. Every so often, she starred in a film but just like her husband, she’d become a big part of the Vercetti empire.

“Mercedes LaCorrida is your _mother_? _Babes With Barettas_ Mercedes LaCorrida?”

Adalita’s facial expression became a bit more malleable without all of her muscles transfixed into a constant scowl. “Yep. I’m the daughter of a drug baron and his porn star wife.”

“Damn, this just keeps getting better and better…” The girl seemed to make him more and more dumbstruck with every minute that ticked by. “Your mother ushered me through manhood.”

“You and a few million others, but thanks. I’m sure she’d be flattered.”

“How does your father er….” He couldn’t imagine Tommy Vercetti being the ‘free love’ type.

“Cope with his wife fucking other men on camera?”

“Yeah.”

“Just fine. There’s a big difference between work and play. Besides, my father was in a production once.”

He was confused; he knew Mercedes LaCorrida’s back catalogue like he knew what good meth was supposed to taste like, he’d never seen Tommy Vercetti in any of her films.

“What one was that?”

“ _Mercedes Loves You_. My father agreed on the basis his face wouldn’t be shown.”

Trevor remembered it well- a POV film shot on a professional camera. Tommy must’ve been the one filming as Mercedes sucked and got fucked like a screeching banshee woman.

“Jesus, that came out in ’91…how old were you?” He remembered it well; he’d spent one freezing turd of a night trying to console himself with the tape after Michael had told him that Amanda had fallen pregnant and he was planning to marry her.

“I was four. It paid for me and my brother’s birthday party.”

“Chasing the All American dream huh?” He tried to conjure the image of Mercedes LaCorrida all dolled up like a housewife, bringing out a birthday cake for her children after a morning spent swallowing back cum. It wasn’t that far removed from his own mother’s previous career in prostitution- the women who gave both of them life sucked dick to pay the bills, one just did it surrounded by prettier scenery.

“Yep- all from the comfort of a poolhouse too.”

In talking about her life, Adalita had loosened up a lot more, as if she knew how absurd her life would seem to others. That didn’t make her loosen her grip on her pistol, but it was good to see that she wasn’t some killer robot, only functioning when she wanted to shoot someone.

“So….did you learn a thing or two?” Trevor asked brazenly, grinning.

Most women would be looking at him in a stunned manner, wondering what the hell he was talking about. Adalita however had had a life of the same fucking question from friends and associates that she’d known over the years, all of which were under the assumption that because she was birthed from a vagina that was no stranger to being fucked hard, she’d somehow be blowing them under the table within minutes of asking that same damn question that’d been asked over a thousand times throughout her twenty six years of life.  She wasn’t getting it from this guy.

“If we are to be working together peacefully, do not assume that my mother’s career somehow translates to me. I’m not going to crawl over and suck your cock, nor am I going to spread my damn legs for you just because you’ve given me a bed. I don’t give one royal shit if you saved my life or not.”

It was surprising that her fingers didn’t bleed from how tightly she was gripping the gun.

“Ok sugar, no need to freak out. Curiosity killed the cat and all that, I get it.”

“Good.”

He’d offended her a little, but he didn’t press the issue. Seemed he was separate from thousands of Vice City club douchebags that’d always manage to find her, regardless of whether she actually cared about their presence or not. Even the women became a bit much, being much more brazen in their approach. She definitely wasn’t in Kansas anymore.

“What about Rosenberg? Where’d that one come from?” Trevor asked, trying to detract her from all preconceived notions that he planned to strap her to the bed and fuck her until she bled. Hell, if events unfolded into that then he would’ve have been against it but as much of a piece of shit as he could admit himself to be, he was not a rapist.

“Rosenberg comes from my godfather. I haven’t seen him since I was four. It’s something I need help with actually, if you are willing.”

“That’s what this twisted little partnership entails. What do you know about him?”

 “His name’s Ken Rosenberg. My father sent him to rehab in Fort Carson in 1991, I heard he went back to working for the Forellis, Leones and Sindaccos in some casino in Las Venturas but he came back to Los Santos….Last I heard he produced Madd Dogg’s comeback album.”

Trevor nodded along as she spoke with only one person in mind for this operation; Lester for all of his conniving, weedy, activist-when-it-benefits-him bullshit ways, he knew how to track down a person. A trip to Murrietta Heights was on the books.

“If I know one thing though, no amount of taking about one’s feelings or hold hands and chanting is going to break a drug habit, especially one like Uncle Rosie’s,” A part of how she said ‘Uncle Rosie’ reminded him of Tracey when she was little and kept calling him ‘Uncle Trebbur’. “So I figured that he’d be using again, or at the absolute least be a stepping stone to finding out who this fucking bitch is supplying. Even if my father wants nothing to do with him, the man’s still my godfather.”

“Fair enough I ‘spose,” There’d been plenty of times where he’d ended up wailing on customers who’d started buying product from the O’Neils. At one stage, they’d infected the area like crabs from a hooker after an eight-dollar half-and-half; a feeling Trevor knew all too well.

“However, first things first…I need my bags from the hotel.”

“What’s in them?” He secretly hoped she’d brought a key of Vercetti’s finest with her.

“Help me retrieve them and maybe you’ll find out.”

He placed his hand under the barrel and cocked the shotgun. “We know what happens when you hold back the truth, now don’t make me blow another hole through my wall.”

She’d gotten used to emitting an annoyed sigh at this point so this time, it came without a second thought. “Apart from my clothes being in my bag, I also have weapons, backup documents, a bit of cash and a couple of kilos of cocaine I need to liberate from my suite.”

The prospect of that, while very exciting indeed, was risky. Cops would more than likely be crawling all over the place since a cool nine bodies met their end there. The staff would be on high alert for any guests resembling the shooters, even Trevor. He couldn’t think of a place in Los Santos that wasn’t decked out in security cameras so more than likely, they’d be on the lookout for Adalita at the absolute bare minimum. Since there’d more than likely be cops crawling around the Vanilla Unicorn, it wasn’t an option to retrieve her cocaine-filled bags by himself. He needed help and knew exactly where to get it.

“I happen to know a few people who might be able to help, for a price.”

“Are they trustworthy?” Of course by this she meant ‘ _Are they likely to run to the cops or use this as plea-bargaining material should they get caught?_ ’ She has no idea how complicated that simple question was however- it made Trevor chortle.

“Ehhhh….if they know what’s good for them, yeah.”

Her face hardened. “What do you mean by that?” She couldn’t risk having another Carlos as a part of her crew; if these people were burnt out junkies who’d gladly sell information in exchange for a hit then it wasn’t worth the risk. Not even for the contents of her suitcases.

“Neither of them are likely to go running off to any kind of law enforcement whatsoever.”

“And how are you so sure?” Adalita still wasn’t convinced that they were the real deal.

Trevor paused for a moment before speaking. “Over in Vice City…did you ever hear about a major robbery over here?”

“Yeah, the Union Depository job. It’s legendary- no one had been able to hit it until then. Dad was impressed.”

Trevor felt incredibly flattered- legendary. So legendary that it impressed Tommy Vercetti. It was no small feat but he did it. “These guys…they were part of my crew. Made off with just over 201 million.”

This was the first time in the evening where he’d managed to truly shock her. “You were behind that? You robbed the Union Depository?”

“Me and a few other guys, so you see Smurfette…we’re in no position to be ratting on you just like you’re in no position to be ratting on us. We are however fully qualified to aid you in your operation.”

She was skeptical, narrowing her eyes in suspicion. “How did you manage to get away with stealing…what was it, 650 gold bars? If the LSPD weren’t onto you, then the FIB certainly would’ve been.”

“Actually, it was 672 gold bars and we were tailed mainly the LSPD and Merryweather Security. We outran the LSPD, not like it’s hard,”

She giggled, remembering the numerous times she’d disappeared behind backstreets back in Vice City. “Local police forces are never really that good.”

“Merryweather was a little bit more difficult- cunts followed us from the Union Depository. We thought we got them after fucking around with the traffic controls but the bastards still found us. No matter…Nothing three guys with an arsenal of firearms can’t handle.”

Traces of suspicion still showed on her face. “Unless you’ve pissed away your cut in a really short space of time, then it’s safe for me to assume that you already have money- why do you want to help me if not to get paid?”

Trevor cracked a half-smile. “I happen to like the chaos. Call me crazy because it ain’t the first or last time, but I happen to like shooting down assholes who deserve to be shut the fuck down. If you’ve come all the way from VC to kill this woman, then she must’ve pissed you off something wicked,”

“You have no idea.” She looked like she was trying to use every shred of her anger to stop herself from becoming upset.

“And since I’m a guy who not only thrives on this chaos but respects the need for a good ol’ fashioned drug war, I’m more than happy to assist in any way I can. All I ask is that you don’t fuck me around, because we’re partners and partners _do not_ flip on eachother.” Towards the end of his sentence, he found his voice becoming a bit coarser, harsher- he hadn’t forgotten North Yankton and probably never would.

This had to be the first time in the night where Adalita had cracked genuine smile, not one that hid malice or murderous intent. He’d proved himself. “Well, we’ll see if you’re full of shit once we’re out there won’t we?” She shuffled over, holding out her hand. “To not fucking one another around and to killing Griselda Diaz.”

He grabbed her hand, shaking it. It was soft, as if treated with velvet. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt hands that soft- even the strippers at the Vanilla Unicorn had rough hands from numerous nail treatments while the whores of Sandy Shores’ hands felt like sandpaper. Adalita definitely gloved up whenever she worked. “To sticking this woman in the ground and to not being lying snakes to one another.”

Trevor’s hands were rough and decorated with numerous scars. His knuckles look like they’d been bashed in enough to turn the outside skin into leather, unable to feel the shock of a punch or otherwise. Still, his hands were large and comforting and he held her hand like it was a baby duckling; for a handshake, it wasn’t terrible.

They pulled their hands away, looking at the morning light peering in through the doorway. They’d been talking for hours with their guns aimed at eachother without realising.

Trevor ran his free hand through his hair. “Look, right now I think it’s pretty safe to say that I am not going to rape you in your sleep and if you’re one for actually honouring a partnership, you’re not going to shoot me in the face considering I’m currently the only person you have helping you. How about we lower our guns at the same time instead of persisting with this Mexican standoff crap?”

She took a moment- he had agreed to a partnership and he didn’t try to shoot through the walls again…maybe he was serious in not wanting to assault or kill her. Then again, nothing was stopping him from having another concealed weapon down the back of his pants. She wouldn’t know unless she found out and holding her gun for hours was starting to make her palms uncomfortably sweaty.

“On the count of three,” Never had either of them stared so intensely at another human being before. They held their guns out in front of one another, hovering inches from the floor. “One….Two” Both stayed perfectly still, still wondering if the other was going to balk on their agreement and fire a couple of rounds into them. “Three.”

Both guns were placed on the floor. The hard part was over.

Trevor stood up onto his feet. “Now that that’s over, feel free to get some sleep. I’ll stick to the couch- got a few calls to make before we can do anything anyway.”

Adalita ran both hands through her hair. “Y’know, for a second there, I thought you weren’t going to put your gun down.”

He smiled, close-lipped. “I didn’t think you were going to either…tell you what though, beats the shit out of you crossing your arms and falling back into me.”


	5. You're Gonna Meet All Kinds, Sweetheart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally finished this chapter after an aaaaages long hiatus to finish another fic, but here it is. Hopefully you'll be able t get a giggle out of it- there are a few more familiar faces in this one :D

She looked peaceful when she slept, just on her side with her hair out in a fan-shape beside her head…had Trevor not known better, he’d have said she looked like a princess (pithy nicknames aside) straight out of Impotent Rage. A far cry from the coke-slinging assassin she was when awake. He wasn’t normally one to stare at women while they slept as the women that usually frequented his bed were bought and paid for…even a meth-head biker wench like Ashley never got to feel the fabric of his sheets.

She’d been out for a few hours already- it was time to start getting some ducks in a row. He walked out onto his front porch, taking in the warmth of a Sandy Shores morning. There were small signs of life skittering around with the faint sound of a police siren coming from the highway- that was sure to make the woman in his bed a little jumpy to say the least.

He took his phone out of his pocket only to see a plethora of texts from Roxy, all of which gravitated from _‘Patrons evacuated to parking lot- all terrified. Serious damage control needed’_ to _‘Body taken care of by Tony and Sam, girls sent home.’_ There was no mention so far of any cops sniffing about the club but knowing the LSPD, it was only a matter of time before they started interviewing witnesses and digging deep into a rabbit hole they shouldn’t climb into. He couldn’t simply bar the doors in the hope they wouldn’t come in; no, he’d have to deal with the bottom feeders of law enforcement eventually.

He scrolled down his contacts list until he found Roxy’s name and pressed it to dial. The dial tone reverberated in his ear for a few moments before he heard a click. “H-hello?” She sounded jumpy.

“Roxy- it’s Trevor.”

“Where have you been- the cops have been crawling all over the place and I have just barely been holding it together! None of the girls want to come in to work, the phone has been ringing off the hook and I don’t know how much else of this I can take!”

Prior to last night, he’d only heard this kind of jabbering from speed freaks whose habits were less recreational and more of a career. It’s amazing what you miss when you have a gun aimed at you by a cocaine heiress wearing nothing but lingerie. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold your horses there Roxy. I need you calm, are you calm?”

“Fuck _calm_ right now Trevor! We’re still trying to get pieces of grey matter out of the carpet!”

“Have the cops been sniffing around?” Trevor was focused on one thing only- sure a dead body is bad for business but bodies can be disposed of and carpets can be cleaned. Give the cops a bite however and they won’t stop until they’ve swallowed you whole.

“Yes, of course they have! A man was murdered in our club!”

“What did you say to them?” His words were the texture of cold, hard granite. The only thing they had working for them was that Adalita had come in under a fake name with all the fake papers to back up said fake name, so if they happened to hit a dead end in their investigation then that wouldn’t be the fault of the Vanilla Unicorn. However, there was also a pain-in-the-ass thing called the LSPD database which happened to track the names of major criminals, including any aliases they might use. He was just going to have to see how incognito this name really was.

“I handed over her file; it had her address as a hotel on it but not much else.”

He smiled. “Good work, you did exactly the right thing Roxy. If they come back however, say nothing. Make sure no one says anything either- this includes Tony, Sam and the girls. No descriptions, nothing. We don’t know this chick’s whereabouts, we don’t know why she decided to blow a guy’s brains out in the club but just call a carpet cleaner or something before they start dusting for evidence. Hell, even tear up the carpet and fuckin’ incinerate it if need be. We need to be back up and running with dancers whom aren’t likely to start picking off the patrons.”

She was silent for a moment. “No worries Trevor.”

“And call the girls back once you do. This is Los Santos, not the goddamn Midwest. People get shot all the time.”

He hung up, slipping the phone into his back pocket. He walked back inside his trailer, catching the sight of a yawning Adalita, stretching her arms upon awakening.

“Speak of the devil- morning Smurfette.”

“Morning,” She looked down at her lap “Seems my underwear’s still on.”

“Well if ever you want me to take ‘em off, you just say the word.”

He managed to coaxed a half-hearted giggle out of her. “It seems you kept your word, Trevor. Thank you for not being a part of the piece-of-shit rapist population.”                        

“Hey, we’re partners aren’t we? Partners don’t rape eachother.”

She didn’t reply, opting to nod once and wear a facial expression that showed that she understood what he’d said. She looked like she was hiding something but now wasn’t the time to choke it out of her.

“Speaking of which, what name did you book your room at the hotel under?”

“Why?” The moments where Adalita wasn’t suspicious in some way were few and far between it seemed.

“Well after your little show last night, the cops started crawling around my club and one of my employees gave up Mercedes Rosenberg. Now, if you’re registered under the same name then we’re gonna have the LSPD trailing after us. It won’t be great but it’ll be manageable.”

She smiled a little. “Good thing I booked my suite under ‘Michelle Floritas’ then.”

He couldn’t help but smile back- the girl wasn’t an idiot and clearly wasn’t a trigger-happy rookie in this business. Of course knowing who her father is justified her criminal knowledge a little but still, he was glad to see a woman who knew when and how to cover her tracks after years of being the only one with any real brains in Trevor Philips Enterprises.

She looked down at her outfit, displeased at the sight. “I’m going to need a set of clothes- I’m not one for wearing lingerie to go down the street.”

“Don’t knock it til’ you’ve tried it sweetheart- it’s rather breezy if you ask me. Great for when global warming makes Los Santos par with the surface of the sun”

She had no idea whether he was being serious or not but nonetheless looked stunned as he walked over to his bedroom closet. “What have we got here?” He muttered to himself as he ran his fingers through articles of clothing before pulling out a bright pink zebra-striped dress that didn’t look too far removed from what she was already wearing.

“Now, as much as I’d hate to see you out of that outfit, I have this dress here. Try it on.”

She took the dress and made her way into the bathroom, wondering if Trevor had a wife or girlfriend, ex or otherwise she should worry about. Either that or he was a crossdresser, which she really didn’t care about; horses for courses and all that. Just the idea of him with another woman made her insides sink in a way she couldn’t quite put her finger on and it really bothered her.

She slipped it on over her corset, sliding the spaghetti straps of it up her shoulders. It fitted perfectly, even if the front was a little stretched. Still, it meant she didn’t need to greet anyone in just her underwear which was a relief- her stripper outfit was starting to feel like it was digging into her skin and branding her.

“Thank you- it fits well.” She said, feeling down her abdomen over the material.

“Great- we can head down to Murrieta Heights then!”

He strode out the door with his keys in hand, Adalita following closely behind. “Excuse me, but what’s in Murrieta Heights?” Hell, she didn’t even know where Murrieta Heights was.

He opened the bullet-punctured door of his red Bodhi as he spoke. “An associate of mine who’ll be able to assist us in finding your Uncle Rosie. Mightn’t do it for free but the little shit knows how to do a background check better than anyone.”

“Is he trustworthy?” She asked as she put on her seatbelt.

He started up the car. “He’s the one who controlled traffic during the Union depository job- got us out without any problems, until Merryweather showed up at the club.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The drive down the Senora Freeway was fairly ordinary enough with dribs and drabs of small talk being made along the way. The wind blew in Adalita’s hair in a way that Trevor had only seen in those annoying retouched shampoo commercials that promised youth and beauty in a bottle, however she seemed to lack the falsities of the models on TV. She just sat, taking in the sights of that around her- the rolling hills along the highway, punctuated with the random truckstops along the side of the road. Maybe there was something hidden beyond the bright lights and white noise of the city.

“So, what was with that cowgirl getup? You’re from Vice but you don’t seem like type for rodeos.” Trevor asked.

“I’m not. The guy I was looking for is however, so I knew I’d get his attention if I dolled myself up in cowgirl gear. Guy was a sucker for anything with tits, a lasso and a pair of cowboy boots apparently- can’t say it didn’t work.” She smiled a self-satisfied smile at the end of her sentence.

She could smell the salty sea air wafting over the hills, closing her eyes for a moment. In this unfamiliar city, she felt like she was home for just a second and it warmed the cockles of her heart.

“What did you say to that guy before you blew his head off?”

“Huh?” She answered, being yanked out of her trance.

“In the club. You put your guns in the guy’s mouth before whispering something, then you shot him. What did you say?”

In the not even 24 hours since the shooting, she’d already mentally skipped over the details of it. It wasn’t a big deal- she had a target and she killed them, that was it. She bore them no ill will, they just simply happened to work for the wrong person and chose the wrong night to attend a strip joint. At the end of the day when the sun set and the night began, it was just business, at least where Griselda’s associates were concerned.

“Oh….I said ‘These ones are real by the way.’”

He looked off the road for a second, staring at her incredulously? “That’s it? Aren’t you Vice City folk supposed to come up with these cutting last words?”

She giggled. “This is the cocaine business, not Die Already. If you want cutting last words, go to a movie theatre.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They pulled up in front of an unremarkable house in an unremarkable but narrow street in Murrieta Heights- the kind of place that blended in with the rest of Murrieta Heights without the element of total seclusion. It looked like anyone could live there and from what Adalita had been told about this guy’s checkered career, it seemed like he wouldn’t want it any other way. Looking just like everyone else is the perfect camouflage.

They walked up the steps, greeted by a small Gruppe Sechs security camera mounted next to the door. Trevor knocked on the door, waving cheerfully at the camera before turning his hand around, flipping it off.

“Mornin’ Mo! Open up!” He said to the camera. It seemed he had a twisted sense of humour.

The door buzzed and cracked open, letting out a dusty smell like the place hadn’t been cleaned in ages. Once they stepped over the threshold, she could see that the place was in a shroud of darkness- there was so much shit stacked on top of more shit, Adalita wouldn’t have been surprised if this associate of Trevor’s had blocked out all light coming through with the amount of boxes, papers and computer parts he had laying around. However, she didn’t have a whole heap of time to keep pondering why this person chose to avoid the sun as a portly man in a wheelchair rolled through the doorway, nursing a pistol.

Adalita took no chances, taking out her own pistol once she saw the glint of the black metal that made up the barrel. By this stage in her life, it was an automatic reaction- if someone pulled a gun on her, she pulled one on them.

“Whoa, Lester- no need for that one buddy!” Trevor exclaimed. He wasn’t by any means scared by it- he’d been on the other end of many, many guns right up until eight or so hours before. Lester just looked so out-of-place holding a firearm.

“I’m sure you of all people value our constitutional right to bear arms, Trevor- I just happen to employ it whenever international drug dealers come into my house, _uninvited_.”

Trevor was unsure whether Lester was referring to him or Adalita; the description fitted them both to a T and if he was referring to them both, he wouldn’t have been surprised. Him and Lester didn’t have the greatest relationship in the world as it was without him dragging a young but accomplished drug heiress into his house.

“Lester? Why’d you call him Mo-oohhhhh, right.” She finally got the Mo-Lester joke.

“Even so Les, this international drug dealer has a business opportunity that you might be interested in and, being the great person I am, decided to include you in that, so Lester Crest,” He gestured over towards him while looking at Adalita. “Adalita Vercetti.”

Her expression was stoic. “Pleased to meet you Mr Crest.” Despite the niceties, her grip on the gun didn’t slacken.

“I know who you are.” Lester responded.

“Then great, it saves me the trouble of having to explain. Trevor here is correct- I do have a business proposition for you and if you know who I am, you’ll also know that I have the means to reward those who help me for their services. However, keep your gun aimed at me and I’ll take it as an insult to my goodwill,” she pulled the hammer back on her pistol. “I don’t like being insulted.”

Trevor grabbed the barrel, pushing it down with ease. “There’s no need for that, Smurfette,” He turned back to Lester “Now you, stop being such a dickweed and be a good host- we’re in need of your fine talents with hunting people down and I’ve never known you to turn down good money.”

Lester huffed, putting the gun into his lap. “Come in. Don’t make a mess of the place.” With that, we wheeled himself around, heading towards his computer and beckoning the two partners in crime to follow.

The glow of his computer monitor seemed to be one of the only sources of light in the room- even with the two other lightbulbs, it was evident that this guy lived a pretty solitary existence.

“So…what can I do for the daughter of one of the most dangerous men in the country?”

This guy really better have had to have been good. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree Mr Crest, so what you can do first is quit being cute before I make sure you have to breathe through a tube to move around; I’m sure from the amount of porn you have stacked in that corner, you value your wrists pretty highly, yes?”

Trevor looked over towards a mess of old copies of Swinger in amongst old VHS copes and DVDs. The girl had the sight of an eagle, probably fine tuned from years of defending the family business- it was one of those things that just came with time and experience in the line of work they were both in. Still, he smiled. “Ain’t she adorable?”

“Quite.” Lester didn’t like the feeling of being emasculated. “What can I do for you and how much will I be paid?” He grasped his fingers in his lap.

Adalita ran a hand through her hair. “I need to find a couple of people, if possible. I will pay you ten thousand dollars for your services; five thousand for each person, AFTER I see them in the flesh that is.”

“Ok, sounds easy enough,” He rolled over towards his keyboard. He couldn’t argue with five grand, no matter where it came from. “What are their names and what can you tell me about them? It’ll make ‘em a whole lot easier to find if I have basic details like age and last known location.”

“The first is Ken Rosenberg. He used to be my father’s lawyer back in Vice in the 80s. He would be in his 60s or thereabouts,” she could see him click to open a tracking program, typing furiously at the keys. “He came to Fort Carson in ’91 for substance abuse problems and ended up in Las Venturas, running a casino for the Sindaccos, Leones and Forellis of Liberty City. However, he somehow got out of the casino business and went on to produce Madd Dogg’s comeback album last I heard. I haven’t seen or heard from him in over 20 years.”

As he typed, tons of pop-ups came up; police records, news articles, press photos; all of which showed her Uncle Rosie with more wrinkles and a receding hairline. Still, she couldn’t deny the joy she felt at seeing that her godfather hadn’t been claimed by his addiction.

“Ken Rosenberg, aged 63, CFO of Galaxy Records. Was disbarred in ’91 for substance abuse and sent to rehab in Fort Carson. He’s been busted for possession more times more than any drug cartel but somehow lives comfortably in an eight-bedroom mansion in Vinewood Hills. No wife, no children, lifetime patron of Heidi’s,” Adalita didn’t need to be told that was an escort service “Currently producing Love Fist’s comeback album and is a key player behind their reunion tour; Just signed a multi-million dollar deal to remaster and re-release their albums. Last arrest was for DUI but never spent a night in jail.”

“That one your Uncle Rosie?”  Trevor asked. Somehow he looked different to what he had pictured.

“Yeah…” She was immobilised. It was really him- the same Uncle Rosie who used to take her and Danny out for icecream and let them draw all over his stationary whenever their father needed legal counsel. For all of his faults, she had missed her godfather.

“Great, then that’s settled. Galaxy Records- I’ll send Trevor the address as well as his home address. Who’s the next one?” Lester minimized the windows, ready to start again.

“Griselda Diaz. 35. Columbian. Cocaine dealer. Traitorous cunt.” She spat her words with contempt, causing Lester to look back at her, stunned.

“Didn’t you two…”

“Search.” Her tone couldn’t have been sharper if you’d ground it against a whetstone. Lester took this as a sign to not probe much further. He knew of Griselda Diaz of course- she’d made her mark on Los Santos only months before, blowing every other major cocaine supplier out of the water. Sometimes he figured Weazel News should pay him for his researching skills; lord knows he had a better grasp on the lives of the rich and dangerous better than they ever did.

The typed in the information Adalita had given him, obviously leaving ‘traitorous cunt’ out of the mix. He’d pulled up her colourful police records, but there were no addresses, nothing…just reports filed by everyone from local police to the FIB, along with various mugshots, rap sheets and her previous life back in Vice. Jesus, he couldn’t even pull up an ID on her.

“Seems I’ve run into a snag here; it seems she’s taken a few precautions to remain hidden from you,”

Adalita gritted her jaw. “Fucking bitch is living under a fake name….” It was just typical of her.

“Leave this one with me. It’ll only be a matter of time before I find her- she can flee across the country but she can’t hide.”

Trevor noticed that their attitudes to one another had softened, as if they’d finally reached some kind of mutual understanding. Still, if she as willing to give out a five thousand dollar finders’ fee then he was sure to get a rather sizable sum for helping her put this woman in the ground.

“Thank you Mr Crest. Keep in touch.”

Trevor patted Lester on the shoulder. “Appreciate it Mo- we’ll kindly lead you to jerking yourself off into further blindness.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Trevor took the wheel once again, screeching out of Murrieta Heights in a way that made Adalita wonder how he ever managed to qualify for a driver’s license. While her first meeting with Lester was peppered with initial hostility, she was relieved that her godfather was alive, well and not far away. She had recovered one person, just not the person she was there to recover. Still, she’d get to see Uncle Rosie at least- hopefully he still remembered her, having grown up from being the little girl who’d draw him pictures that he’d proudly place behind his desk.

“So that just leaves your bags.” Trevor said, breaking her trip back into yesteryear.

“Yes. You wouldn’t happen to have any associates who may be able to help me out with that one? Pretty sure the security cameras caught pretty decent footage of us both.”

“As a matter of fact I do sweetheart; he lives just over in Rockford Hills.”

“Would you mind telling me his name and how he’d be of assistance before we show up unannounced?” she deadpanned.

“His name’s Michael Townley, although he’s going by De Santa nowadays. Technically he’s in the Witness Protection Program, but that doesn’t stop him from engaging in criminal activity on occasion. He’s my best friend, my partner in crime, my running buddy and I’m an uncle to his kids myself. He was also involved in the Union Depository job, so he could go in and get your bags in his sleep.”

“Is he likely to inform any kind of law enforcement as to my presence?” Hearing the phrase ‘Witness Protection Program’ set off alarm bells inside her.

Trevor chortled as he ducked and weaved in and out of traffic. “Believe me, he’ll keep his mouth shut. Even then, with the law enforcement he’s associated with….having connections to a high-powered drug distributor is pretty tame; trust me on this one.”

She giggled, looking at the flurry of buildings and people whizzing by her. “One thing my father told me, Mr Philips….”

“You’ve got to cut it out with that Mr Philips shit, honestly….” He said as they turned a corner. “Ok, what did your daddy tell you?”

“Never trust anyone who says ‘Trust me.’”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They pulled up next to a row of hedges adjacent to a tennis court that was adjacent to a mansion in Rockford Hills. They were parked on what’d looked like West Eclipse Boulevard from the amount of movie-star impersonators they’d passed and it was clear that at that point, they were going in the back way to this Townley guy’s place.

“Here we are- the Chateau De Santa.” Trevor smiled gleefully, presenting the place to her as if it were a new car. In return, she just nodded- it looked like a nice place, it’s just that her Starfish Island home was a little bigger.

Trevor had already begun to climb over the hedges. “Well don’t just stand there Smurfette.”

Adalita did the same, feeling the scrape of the leaves and twigs up her arms and through the fabric of her dress as she slided over, landing on the tennis court on her feet. She brushed down her front before following Trevor past the net.

“If you’re his best friend, why aren’t we knocking on his door?” she asked as they made it to a set of stairs.

“Got a giant gate in front of it and he doesn’t know we’re comin’. I figured this way’s as good as any.”

Suddenly, his ears pricked up like a coyote that’d just heard gunshots. He could hear a woman moaning. “Do not. Make. A sound.” He enunciated to her with a finger held up.

He crouched, making his way up the stairs with Adalita following close behind. They’d made it to the spa before he heard it again.

“OHHHHH!!!! OH GOD! OH FUCK!!!”

He’d recognise that moan feigning orgasm anyway- Amanda. Amanda was fucking some schmuck- probably a yoga teacher, tennis teacher, whatever teacher- in his best buddy’s house. She wasn’t going to get away with it this time- not when Michael had betrayed him and made him think he was dead for nine years so she could run off with whatever dick dragging around a body she should find. Not in his buddy’s house.

“Come on!” He hissed, running up the stairs and past the pool as the moans and pleasures pants became louder. ‘Fucking gold digging whore…” he muttered angrily as he took cover behind a wall next to some crossed tennis rackets; Adalita did the same. Whomever was there, he was going to beat him to a bloodied pulp.

“YOU’RE NOT GETTING AWAY WITH IT NOW YOU UNGRATEFUL BITCH!” He yelled as he flung the glass doors leading to the dining room open.

“OH MY GOD!!!”

Trevor and Adalita stood with their mouths ajar. Amanda was indeed a heaving, red-faced mess; wide-eyed and bent over the kitchen counter with her tits barely contained in her tennis outfit and her whole body awash in post-orgasmic bliss. The only thing was Michael was behind her, wearing a ludicrous tennis shirt, face red from either just fucking her stupid and cumming inside of her or finding that his best friend and some random young woman had just burst in on them.

“FUCK, TREVOR! CAN’T A MAN FUCK HIS OWN WIFE IN PEACE?” Michael bellowed as he and his wife fumbled around, zipping up and pulling up underwear respectively.

Trevor let out a disbelieving laugh that Adalita had only heard from villains in movies based on comic books. "Adalita, this red-faced pair here are Michael and Amanda De Santa. Michael and Amanda, this is Adalita Vercetti- she's from out of town."


	6. Pack Your Bags, Let's Blow This Joint

Trevor and Adalita sat by the kitchen bench that still smelled of Michael and Amanda’s passionate lovemaking; no matter how much people tried to deny it or straighten up their venue, the scent of thrusting, grinding and moaning always hung in the air afterwards. Trevor figured it was probably the reason so many people having extramarital affairs got themselves caught nowadays.

Michael walked back into the kitchen sporting his blue button-up shirt and cargo shorts, along with a sour look on his face and Amanda following closely behind. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Trevor?” His words were welcoming but the tone was sardonic. Good ol’ Mikey.

“Oh nothin’- my partner here and I were in town and figured we’d drop by.”

“Well you coulda’ called first, man.”

“Then I would’ve missed out on you and Amanda fucking eachother stupid- what’s up with that anyway?”

Amanda scoffed, folding her arms and shaking her head while Trevor grinned at her, knowing full well that it’d annoy her even more.

Michael swallowed for a moment “Well T, ever since we last saw eachother I’ve been trying to improve my marriage; I hope that’s ok with you.” His words became harder towards the end of his sentence.

“Ahhhh….well good for you Michael. And Amanda, you too- gotta put in that legwork if you want it to last. Not to mention Mikey, I’m guessing you don’t want those fake tits to go to waste on some other guy, am I right? I mean we aren’t in North Yankton anymore.” He chuckled.

“Fuck you.” Amanda jibed before Michael wandered over, holding her shoulders and whispering in her ear “Honey, I’m sorry- you know what he’s like….”

She nodded once before he kissed her on the cheek, pulling away and glaring at Trevor. “When you’re done insulting my wife and I, you might want to tell me why you and a complete stranger are here.”

Adalita stood up, holding out her hand. “Adalita Vercetti. Pleased to meet you, Mr and Mrs De Santa.”

They both shook her hand begrudgingly, with Michael adding “Nice to meet you too sweetheart, but that still doesn’t explain who you are or why you’re here.”

“I have a business proposition for you and was told by Trevor that you were an ideal candidate for what I have to offer.”

Michael scoffed. “That’s great but with all due respect, I have no idea who the fuck you are and despite what this guy told you,” he gestured over towards Trevor. “I’m out of the life. For good.”

“C’mon Mikey…are we really going to uphold this charade every nine years? You can change the scenery but not the situation Sugartits- you’re a criminal and a decent one at that. If you don’t have the itch now, you’ll get it soon and it’ll eat away at you, just like it did before. Besides, this job ain’t even that bad.”

Amanda huffed, unconvinced by anything Trevor had said. “And what would you classify as ‘not that bad’, Trevor? Are you going to be shooting up Rockford Plaza or blowing up the freeway today?”

“Actually Mrs De Santa, I was wondering if your husband might be able to retrieve my luggage from the Opium Nights Hotel.” She clasped her hands down around her waist and looked Michael dead in the eye, waiting for an answer.

"That's it?" Michael stared at her as if he was searching for a catch of any kind.

"Yes. Retrieve my bags and I will reward you handsomely for your efforts."

Amanda wasn't impressed. "My husband isn't some errand boy- go find someone else."

Michael held his hand up "Hold on a minute honey; you're gonna pay me to go get your bags and that's all I've got to do? How much?"

"Fifteen thousand when they're safe and sound in my possession. There's two large suitcases and three smaller carry-on cases, so if you have a fairly sizable car, I suggest you take it. If you could do it all in one trip also, the better."

Michael squinted. Sure, the work didn't even seem like work and it was a task that this girl could surely complete herself...but if there was one thing he'd learned about working for those with money is that no one throws around that kind of coin without some kind of risk involved.

"What's the catch?"

She glanced back at Trevor whom grinned at what Michael was asking. "Do you want to tell him or shall I?"

He stood up, hitching up his pants as he walked over. "Michael, you're not very well versed in your criminal history there buddy," he put his hand on her shoulder. "Young Adalita here happens to be the daughter of the biggest cocaine supplier in the country." The amount of glee in his voice was akin to a teenager meeting their favourite celebrity.

All Michael could do was put his hand over his mouth in bewilderment as Amanda's eyes widened "Jesus fucking Christ Trevor, you brought a fucking coke dealer into our home?"

"Why yes Amanda. She's indeed a distributor of cocaine just like I'm a distributor of methamphetamine, Mikey and I are both bank robbers and how you stripped and sucked for money back in the day."

She scowled back at him filthily. Adalita stepped forward, softening her voice. "I mean no disrespect Mrs De Santa. We all do what we can to pay the bills; I can imagine that you understand that well. I was told that your husband here could help me, which is why I'm here. I would do this myself however an incident at the hotel is preventing me from doing so, which is why I'm asking for assistance. Your husband will be compensated for his efforts and if there is any trouble whatsoever, my father and I have the means to get him out of that trouble."

Amanda sighed for a moment, still unconvinced with Adalita's spiel. Whenever Trevor wandered in, he brought in an air of bad news and this girl was no exception. She looked her husband with a stare that could break the strongest nerve "It's your call Michael."

As she walked out of the room, Michael looked at Trevor and Adalita before speaking. "What's in the bags?"

Adalita took a moment to answer, running a hand through her thick, black hair. “Aside from my clothes, I have cash, important documents, guns and various explosives. Oh yeah, and the odd couple of keys of cocaine too.”

Michael sighed frustratedly "I knew there was a catch, I knew there was a goddamn catch."

"Of course Mr De Santa....in our line of work, who offers fifteen thousand to pick up suitcases without there being some sort of catch?"

He nodded for a moment; she was right. There were no free rides in the life of a criminal, despite all efforts towards the opposite. While most careerpeople would look at them as thugs, just out to make a quick buck that they neither earned nor deserved, they paid more than any of those in a suit. They knew the risks- get killed during a job, get arrested, have your running buddy turn on you....man, that last one still sent a shiver down his spine whenever Trevor turned up on his doorstep. Either way, the stresses were far, far greater than worrying about one's taxes or whether a job came with dental- in dealing with high-profile thugs, those whom were supposed to uphold the law to the letter, he'd endangered his family far more than in dealing with the thugs that were firmly in the life. The lawmen apparently sent mercenaries to your house to hold your family hostage while the coke dealers, the ones the news told you to fear and keep away from your kids...well, it turned out they came up to your doorstep wearing a big ol' Vice City grin and offering fifteen grand to pick up their suitcases. Go figure.

"How come you guys aren't doin' this yourselves?" His eyes darted between the pair.

"Well Mikey, odds are we're not quite welcome at the hotel where the bags are; we figured it's best to steer clear and not test the waters to see whether the fine folk of the LSPD are on the lookout for us or not."

Adalita's expression hardened. "My presence at the hotel was noted by a few unsavoury individuals Mr De Santa, so I feel it's best to steer clear of that location. The same unsavoury individuals however, will not be looking for you. And if they are...I'm told that your exploits at the Union Depository have ensured that you can take care of yourself."

"Call me Michael, please," it felt nice, having his ego massaged by someone who's not quite young and starry-eyed but from the big leagues of the criminal underworld. Sure she was probably doing it in order to manipulate him into carrying out this task but still...there was no school like the old school. "Fine, I'll do it. Where is it and what room are you in?"

The girl smiled for a moment before digging around in her cleavage, pulling out a keycard and holding it out in front of him. "It's the Opium Nights Hotel, just out by the airport. The room is 1016 and I'm booked under the name 'Michelle Floritas.' Return the bags in one piece to Sandy Shores and you will receive your money. If I find there's anything missing however, that will render our agreement null and void- fair?"

"Fair."

"Also, I think it goes without saying that if you give me up to law enforcement of any description, you'd be making an incredibly unwise decision. I know where you live and I know your wife's name. My family are reputed to have quite creative means of dispatch back home; I suggest if you don't want to get the green lighted, you don't make my presence known to anyone."

"No worries there, sweetheart; I have no reason to go running off to law enforcement any time soon." He smiled a close-lipped smile at her.

"Relocating cross-country got you beat already Mikey? Damn...it's only been nine years."

Michael shot Trevor a filthy look, knowing full well that he probably should've been on the receiving end of it. He was probably going to feel guilty for abandoning his best friend and lying to him about his whereabouts for all those years for the rest of his days; it was a means to an end but it meant cutting one of the people who knew him the most clean out of his life. No apology was going to absolve him of what he'd done but still, that didn't give the thinner, scarred Canadian man standing in front of him the licence to rub salt into the wound.

"I sure hope not." Adalita handed the key over to Michael. "Name, room number and location?"

The keycard felt warm against his fingers, still containing the body heat from being pressed up against her tits for a lengthy amount of time. "Michelle Floritas, 1016, Opium Nights Hotel."

Adalita smiled, holding out her hand. "I shall see you in Sandy Shores, Michael."

"It's in the bag, Miss Vercetti." he shook her hand firmly. When he'd first met Steve Haines and Devin Weston, he'd been greeted with derision of some variety, whether it be laden with belligerence or self-satisfied smarminess. While the girl's good manners didn't necessarily mean she was a good person, it was nice to not be treated like scum in the recesses of a boot when offered a job. If he'd get paid...that was a different story altogether.

Trevor looked down at her with a wash of disbelief setting over him. "Tell me now Smurfette, what AREN'T you hiding in your cleavage?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Michael pulled up into the carpark sitting out the front of the Opium Nights Hotel. The sight of the black Washingtons and LSPD Squad cars in the same carpark was not surprising by any means, but it did add to the list of assholes he'd have to avoid in order to retrieve the bags. As he exited his car, he could see the entry was cordoned off with police tape while the tarmac was decorated with chalk outlines of bodies- the windows at the entrance had been overed over with butcher's paper. Christ, what did they get up to last night?

He noticed a sign placed on one of the columns telling guests to head over to another door, as if a measly bit of cardboard was going to deflect the natural curiosity people have when presented with a spectacle such as a crime scene. There weren't many people littered around the joint, which was good for Michael's sanity, but he'd have to tread carefully if there was the odd detective or two sniffing around. He headed towards the glass-paned door, pulled it open and walked inside.

The place was by no means fancy- there was no Italian marble  or French hand-woven wallpaper adorning the walls- but even so, it was a shitload better than some of the flophouses he'd stayed in while on the run back in Ludendorff. As he wandered through the hallway, he could see a pair of plainclothes detectives hounding the concierge for information.

"We're asking you one last time, are you sure you have no one called Mercedes Rosenberg on your guest list?" One detective asked, clearly nearing the end of his tether. 

The concierge wore a poker face that let on his irritation with the questions. "Quite sure sir; I poured over our records dating back to 2010. Then I did it the second, third and fourth time you asked me- no one named Mercedes Rosenberg has stayed at this hotel."

"Did you get a good look at the faces of those involved in the shooting?"

"Yes, and they're on the CCTV tapes you took earlier. I don't know what else you want me to do, detectives."

By this point Michael had almost made it past the detectives to get to the elevator. Almost.

"Excuse me sir, are you a guest in this hotel?" The concierge asked.

"Uh, yeah..." Michael pulled the keycard up in front of his face, in full view of the detectives. "Just came to get a few things."

The tension in the air between the four people became stifling pretty quickly as the two detectives looked all over, trying to see if something was amiss about him. There was, but years of sitting in one-way mirrored rooms under that all too irritating yellow lighting had helped Michael form a protective mask whenever confronted by the long arm of the law. Davey had only succeeded because he'd cased Michael out and when you draw a bad hand, it's better to cash in your chips than it is to lose it all. This pair however? Easy.

"Go on through sir." One detective said, waving his hand over towards the elevators.

"Thank you."

He walked over towards the elevator doors, still feeling the detective's eyes burning in the back of his skull as they opened and he walked inside- he pressed the number for the tenth floor, maintaining the same stoic composure in case there was a camera inside the elevator. No need to alert the detectives when they're not looking for you when you have plenty of reasons to refrain from cooperating.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He was relieved when he saw an approving green light allowing him to go into Adalita's room. It was simple enough, with a small bathroom tucked away to the side and a desk, chair and TV perched at the foot of the bed. The bed itself was hotel-neat; a maid must've come in while Adalita was out causing the reason she couldn't come in herself and grab the bags. At least that reason explained why they were so neatly zipped up on the chair, table and floor.

Michael walked over to one of the larger suitcases, picking it up to gauge the weight. On it's own it would've been fine to carry down, but there was a second one of those huge sons of bitches to take down, as well as three smaller carry on bags. He'd definitely need a porter's trolley, no doubt about it. It'd attract a bit of attention, but he wasn't aggravating his sciatica for anyone, even if they were offering him fifteen grand.

He opened the door, jamming a doorstop underneath it while he scoped out a trolley. Thankfully they were tucked around the corner in a neat little row next to the elevators; he rolled one out and down the hallway, stopping in front of room 1016. He carried each bag, plonking them onto the trolley one by one, trying to come to grips with the fact that said bags contained kilos of cocaine. Sure, he's carried iFruit phones rigged up with explosives before, but the drug game was never one that Michael had become a part of- as far as he was concerned, that was Trevor's field. 

When the last bag was packed neatly atop the other four, he let out a contented sigh. All he had to do now was wheel the trolley down through the lobby and out to the carpark, pack the bags into his car and drive on up to Sandy Shores. He'd remembered rolling over gas stations for only a couple of grand on a good night; this was chump change for a woman like Vercetti but still- it wasn't a bad paycheck for such a simple job. He stepped into the room, scouring over it for any details he may have missed. The bathroom was clear- he'd taken a few hotel shampoos for good measure, but in the bedroom he saw the corner of a pamphlet or something peeking out from under the bed. He knelt down and pulled it out; there were two pictures- one of a two children at that looked like a birthday party, flanked by lady with purpley-red hair and bright red lips and a larger man wearing a gold chain and a face that had clearly been around the block and seen some shit in his day. A cake was perched in front of them that said 'Happy Birthday Adalita and Daniel'; man...it was almost scary how Adalita's own family weren't so far removed from his own. The other picture was of two women nursing drinks in a club, clearly taken quite a few years later. Adalita was smiling as she was kissed on the cheek by the other woman; a slightly plumper, curvier woman with jet-black hair done up in a ponytail and red lipstick. She probably didn't want to leave these photos behind, so he slipped them in his pocket with the shampoos.

He closed the door and wheeled the trolley back to the elevators, stepping in once the doors opened. He pushed the Lobby button and rested against the mirrored wall as it began to move. Soon this would be over and he could start counting his payment. Maybe he'd finally get around to buying another Jacqueline. Maybe he'd finally be able to get Amanda, Jimmy and Tracey to agree to a day out on the water, as a family.

The doors opened and sent a jolt of shock through his system. The two detectives from before were standing at the entrance. 

"Find what you were looking for sir?" one asked. He clearly had an attitude.

"Yes, thank you."

"Mind if we ask you a few questions?" The other asked, walking him over towards a large table across from the elevators.

"Sure." Now wasn't the time to get cute with the detectives.

"Were you staying at this hotel last night around 11:30 pm?"

That must've been the time Adalita and Trevor had caused that mess outside. "No, I was at my brother's engagement party. We were all a bit drunk and I didn't feel like leavin' so I stayed," The more detail he gave, the less interested they'd be. "If you don't mind me askin', was that when that mess outside happened?"

"Yes. Nine people were shot outside here, as well as one in the Vanilla Unicorn club. We believe the murders are connected and are on the lookout for the people involved."

"Ah, sorry. I think we were in the middle of kareoke by then."

"Mind if we search your bags?" The first detective with the attitude asked. 

Michael had to react but couldn't react too much. Despite the pistol shoved down the back of his pants, it was incredibly likely that there were more officers crawling around the place and unfortunately he didn't have a bullet for all of them. If he stayed there sweating or even just showed the slightest bit of nerves, they'd see that he wasn't quite telling the truth. Any refusal to let them check the bags would lead him into being taken into the police station and still having them check the bags. In the life, there's always a catch.

"Sure."

The detective clicked open the buckles on the suitcase, flinging it open. Michael felt paralysed by all of the possibilities running through his mind- what would happen if they saw a row of neat, white packages all laid out inside? Or perhaps a couple of pistols embedded in some foam? His eyes were transfixed on the bag, looking for some way that he could get out of this bind he was in.

There were no white packages, nor were there pistols. There were just layers and layers of clothes, folded neatly into a few piles. There was a sense of relief but even so, he wasn't out of the woods yet. She could've stuffed the packaged underneath the clothes, in pockets...he secretly hoped she'd somehow come up with a new and improved method of transporting drugs across state lines that meant they couldn't be detected with a bag search.

They rifled through the case and turned up with nothing but clothes. Every so often, they'd tapped on the lid of the suitcases, only to come back with a solid thud- there were no cavities in which illicit substances couldn't be hidden. When the detectives came up to the third bag and noticed only womens' clothes, they asked "Got no men's clothes in here sir?"

"These bags are my wife's. I only brought one bag, she brought five. You know how it is." He chuckled. 

Again, there were no weapons, no documents, no packages of cocaine, not even any neat wads of cash. Just an array of shoes, shirts, pants, dresses, lingerie and accessories. Jesus....she'd packed as if she were a runway model.

On the fifth bag, one of the detectives noticed a mess of black straps, like you'd see on a backpack. He pulled at them, holding up what appeared to be a black strap-on dildo with a look that rested somewhere between quizzical and judgemental.

"This your wife's too sir?" The detective asked.

"Ha ha, yeah..." He laughed nervously. Good one Adalita. "You know what they say- happy wife, happy life."

The detective rose his eyebrows for a moment before slipping it back into the bag, zipping it shut. As red-faced as Michael was, they'd turned up with a whole heap of nothing which was surprising on many levels- these bags were supposed to have an assortment of contraband in them; had Adalita hidden them all well or had someone come back and stolen all of her shit? Either way, he'd sure find out if he returned the bags and she stuck a gun in his face.

"You enjoy the rest of your stay in Los Santos, sir." One detective said before the pair made a dejected beeline for the doors.

"You gentlemen have a nice day." Michael responded, feeling like a Bean Machine barista as he saw the officers walk away. He piled the bags back onto the trolley, taking note that the concierge wasn't sitting at the front desk. As he rolled the trolley past, he pulled the keycard out of his pocket, flicking it onto the desk. Michael, or 'Michelle Floritas' has left the building.

He exited the same way he had entered, rolling the trolley towards his Tailgater, fiddling with the remote hanging off his set of keys in his pocket. With one button he unlocked the car but with another, he'd popped the trunk open, hastily packing each bag inside. They all fitted, thank God, meaning he could finally get the fuck out of there. He wheeled the trolley back to the entrance, leaving it just outside the door as he picked up his iFruit phone, searching for Lester's number.

"Michael, what can I do for you?" Lester answered after a few dial tones.

"Hey Les, I was wondering if you could check a certain person out of the Opium Nights Hotel." Michael responded as he climbed into the front seat, turning on the car.

"Should be easy enough- what's the name?"

"Michelle Floritas." He reversed out of his car space and began to drive.

"Hmmm, ok....." He could hear the clack clack clack of Lester typing on his keyboard. "Michelle Floritas, checked in about a week ago and checked out about half an hour ago. All sorted."

"Thanks. Hey...have you heard of any jobs or anything coming up?"

"Nothing as such so far; there's a minor thing that I'm working on but so far I can handle it myself. I'll call you if anything comes up."

"Ok Les, thanks. Speak to you soon."

"Speak to you soon Michael."

As he hung up the phone, he was on the La Puerta Freeway, making his way to glamorous Sandy Shores.


End file.
